


Not So Innocent

by GraphDesino



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Historical Hetalia, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Politics/Current Events
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 14:25:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9758918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraphDesino/pseuds/GraphDesino
Summary: Modern RusAme, about as mutually-constructive and healthy as you'd expect. Current eventsy/political and satirical content. Not-quite-NSFW-but-very-very-close.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Click the links.

Sensory overload. That was the idea. Glorious, terrifying delirium. Oh, they could force him to walk in lock-step with them if they wished. Like the obedient public servant he was, he bent to their populist whims. If recovery required coercion, if strength demanded obedience, if peace was only possible through force of will – well, he'd made his choice, no use denying it, and now he was getting exactly what he'd asked for. 

But _choice_ , _will_ , rational self-interest – all could be overpowered, all could be drowned out. All could be crushed under the even greater influence of another. An outside actor, his longtime foil and longer-time friend. He knew it was dangerous, of course. But if it hadn't been, he wouldn't have been interested. He had spent the last decade steeped in fear and uncertainty, always treading water, barely keeping his head above the surface. There was, at least, something concrete about this. Guaranteed malice. The promise of certain pain and injury. Not even the  illusion of benevolence. 

Step one: What he thought of as standard precautions. Lock the door. Close the blinds. Put a sticky note over his phone camera. But keep the mustard-yellow, ever-flickering lights on, even in the darkest depths of night. Old nigh-windowless tenements like these were usually pitch black otherwise. 

Step two: Prepare. He would sedate himself just beyond the point of lucidity. If nothing had been graciously provided for him by his host, it was simple enough to obtain it himself. Muscovites liked getting fucked up too, after all. A vice common to all men and nations. Then, to ensure the confidentiality of anything one of them might say, he would pound one of his old Reagan-era  mixtapes. The previous tenant, a DJ of somekind, had left behind a kind of ramshackle stereo system, an assortment of half-burned-out Chinese-made subwoofers hot-wired together. When cranked up to ten, they were capable of forming new cracks in the stucco ceiling. (He paid twice the normal rent on this place. Let the neighbors complain – he'd buy them off too, if he had to. The poor bastards.) 

And then Russia would arrive, and whatever would happen, would happen. And America would come to, sometimes several hours later, sweaty and aching and alone. 

* * *

[_I lose, you win,_ _I lose again, b_ _ut you're on my five-year plan, y_ _our time will come when you least expect it..._](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QEs7Ugro6Fw)

Ah, yes, today he'd grabbed _Thrash Almighty,_ a vintage masterpiece of his own composition. He'd reworked it not long ago, but couldn't for the life of him remember its contents, or why he'd been so careful to bring it. Not that it really mattered, since it served its purpose well enough: the songs were loud, had a nice frantic drumbeat to fuck to, and seemed to irritate Russia.

Through the numbness of opiate-fog, he could feel something approaching pleasure, as well as the sensation of his t-shirt curling up the small of his back. His shoulders were mashed into the headboard, cold fingertips curled around his hip. He closed his eyes.

The song ended, and another began, the opening riff climbing in volume.  

That cold hand fell away from him. The other man froze. 

Oh, yes. Now America remembered. As the vocalist's high-pitched, girlish shriek rang out, he felt his lips curl into an involuntary smirk. He snickered against the bed.

[_This state may be stronger than time in jail._ _The more arrests, the happier it is._ _Every arrest is carried out with love for the sexist, w_ _ho botoxed his cheeks and pumped his chest and abs_...](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bO3LzNwuxuA)

Russia pulled away suddenly and flipped him around, his hands balled into fists. 

 


End file.
